Forever
by Samwysesr
Summary: When Tatiana Ivashkov sent Abe Mazur to run an errand for her, he never imagined that it would set in motion events that would change his life forever—or that he would wind up falling in love with a fiery Scottish dhampir who loathes him at first sight. {Rated M for later chapters}
1. Chapter 1

Out of all the perks his relationship with Tatiana provided, his favorite by far was the deferential respect the Royals gave him; they didn't dare offend or anger the woman who was rumored to be their next queen. They bit their tongues and kept their disdain hidden, treating him as an equal—brown nosing and ass kissing in hopes of winning her favor. That respect was something he'd always craved… but at times like this, he seriously thought about throwing in the proverbial towel.

He wasn't a goddamned errand boy—not for _anyone._

"Look, I don't give a shit _what_ you were told—Tatiana Ivashkov sent _me_ to pick up the package for her. So I suggest you get your bureaucratic ass back there and find it—or I'll find it myself." He glared at the Moroi clerk, his temper getting the best of him. The hellish train ride from the capital to Saint Basil's had taken fifty four hours, leaving him tense and irritable—ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Having to listen to the clerk—the idiot was obviously a student volunteer—hem and haw for the last five minutes hadn't done anything to improve his mood.

The bell over the door jangled behind him, but he didn't turn around to look at the new arrival—to do so would mean breaking eye contact with the moron, and he'd be damned if he'd be the first to give.

"Stef, Professor Grasavich needs—"

"Wait your turn kid," he snapped, still not bothering to look at the voice's owner; his Russian was flawless—unlike hers—rolling off his tongue as if it were his native language.

"Bloody Royal arsehole."

The muttered oath in strongly accented English grabbed his attention like a slap in the face; he spun around, shifting his glare to the dhampir girl standing behind him—this time speaking in English. "What the fuck did you just call me?"

Her cheeks flushed—brown eyes widening in surprise, but she didn't back down. Tilting her head back, she lifted her chin defiantly, returning his glare in kind, with a fierce version of her own. "I called ya a bloody Royal arsehole—though I probably shoulda added the word _rude _in there as well!"

He narrowed his eyes. "You've got a smart mouth on you kid—better watch out or it'll get you into trouble."

"I'm not a bloody _kid_—an' I'm hardly likely ta be frightened by the likes of ya, am I!" She scoffed at the idea, rolling her eyes. "Could take ya with one hand behind me back."

"Miss Hathaway! Mr. Mazur is a guest of this Academy—your impudence is _not _ appreciated." The loud, disapproving voice came from the inner sanctum that the moronic clerk had been guarding; a tall, gray haired Moroi stood framed in the doorway of one of the offices. "Apologize—now."

"I will _not—_he was rude ta me first!" The dhampir tossed her head; despite his irritation, he couldn't help but notice the way the deep red strands complimented her coloring.

The angry glint in his dark eyes faded, replaced with a look of interest as he slowly raked his gaze over the fiery tempered girl, really _seeing_ her for the first time as something other than an irritation. She was short—at least a foot and change shorter than he was—dressed in baggy training clothes that were unable to hide the curvaceous body beneath them. His tongue darted out, swiping across his lips as he raised his gaze back up to take in her face—_Jesus… she's a fucking knockout…oh shit._

The girl was watching him with an indignant look on her gorgeous face.

"Why don't ya take a feckin picture—it'll last longer ya dirty pervert," she snapped, her brown eyes filled with barely controlled rage.

"Miss Hathaway! How dare you—"

"I'm here ta learn ta protect a charge—not to be bloody well ogled like some kinda pin up girl!"

"That's quite enough out of you—"

"No—she's right." His voice was soft as he cut the man off, bowing his head to the dhampir. "My apologies, Miss Hathaway—I shouldn't have been so rude."

_Or quite so obvious about the direction my thoughts were headed,_ _he added mentally._

"Damn right ya should'na been! I ain't a damned blood whore!" She turned, storming out of the office, her curvy backside twitching as she moved—a mouthwatering sight, to say the least. The glass in the door rattled as she slammed it shut behind her.

"I'm so sorry you had to deal with that Mr. Mazur—she's an exchange student… unaccustomed to how we do things here. Highlanders can be… temperamental, to say the least." The older man's voice drew his eyes away from the door—the jackass was practically bowing and scraping in an attempt to smooth over the incident and appease him.

"As I recall, I've often heard the same said about Russians, Mister…"

"Boreyev . Vladimir Boreyev—I am the headmaster of this academy." The man held out his hand—Abe ignored it.

"Where's the package I'm supposed to be picking up, Boreyev?"

The headmaster grimaced. "I'm afraid it's not quite ready. You see… Princess Ivashkov's secretary said there was no rush… it was set aside to work on more pressing matters. It will take a few days to get the financial statements pulled and then a few more to compile the figures she requested. Of course you will have full use of one of the suites we reserve for our honored guests while you wait."

Ten minutes before, he would have exploded in rage at the wait—but he suddenly found himself intrigued at the thought of lingering at the academy for a little longer. "Not a problem. I'll just wander around—make myself familiar with your lovely campus in the interim."

"Very good sir. Stefan—arrange to provide Mr. Mazur with whatever he might need to make his stay more comfortable, then summon one of the guardians to show him to the guest suites—"

"Boreyev," he interrupted, his eyes drifting back to the door, "The Scottish girl I offended…I'll need to make proper amends for my rudeness. What's her name?"

The headmaster looked surprised. "Novice Janine Hathaway, sir. But you really don't need to trouble yourself—"

"Oh… I think I do." His lips twitched up in a slow, lazy grin as he thought about the tempestuous red head. "You see Boreyev… if I'm occupied trying to appease Miss Hathaway's temper… I might forget how pissed off I am that Tati's package wasn't ready. You really don't want me angry now… do you?"

The man paled; he'd heard rumors about what happened to people who incurred the young Turk's anger. "No sir… I don't"

"Good… I'm glad we understand each other." Abe rapped his knuckles on the counter, turning towards the door. "I don't need a guardian to show me the way—I'll find it on my own. Oh… and Boreyev?" Abe glanced back over his shoulder, his sly smile widening. "That package? No hurry, if you catch my drift. If Tati said no rush, then there's no need to put yourself out. Take as long as you need—I think I might enjoy sticking around awhile."

* * *

**_A/N:_ Abe and Janine have been poking me nonstop… so I gave in—on one condition. For this fic, I am going to attempt to keep each chapter under 2,000 words in hopes that it won't interfere with all the other updates I need to make. Just a heads up, I plan on taking it up through Abe meeting Rose in Russia for the first time, though I have no idea how often I'll update since the other fics take precedence—and because Abe is an extremely temperamental muse and only talks when he's damn good and ready, lol. Also, don't worry, I don't intend to type out Janine's accent throughout the whole thing—just the first few chapters to set the tone for the rest. Hope you enjoy it.**


	2. Chapter 2

As she marched across campus, she muttered a stream of Gaelic curses under her breath; it was no use trying to curb her temper—once it had been set free, there was no way to rein it in. She was so angry that she was quivering, filled with an intense need to lash out and hit something—preferably the cocky, arrogant Moroi who'd dared to look at her like she was nothing more than a piece of meat. His dark eyes had betrayed his lustful thoughts, filling her with an undeserved sense of shame—as if _she_ was the one who'd done something wrong, just because she had a shapely figure. She was still fuming when she reached the building where her class was held—so irate that she'd completely forgotten the copies she'd been sent to fetch until she was almost to the entrance. The realization stilled her steps; she cursed again, loudly, shifting from one foot to the other as she hesitated on the walkway near the doors. She didn't want to disappoint her teacher, but there was no way she was going back to the office—if she did and the Moroi man was there, she'd probably attack him and end up getting expelled.

Spinning around, she broke into a run, veering off into the trees—her pent up frustration finally breaking free of her control. As her feet pounded against the dirt, she focused on the movement of her body—how good the burn felt in her calves and thighs as her muscles warmed up, lengthening and stretching as she tried her best to keep her strides fluid and evenly paced. It was a temporary fix—as soon as she stopped running, her anger would return, but for the moment, it was the best she could do. She had to wipe the memory of the Moroi's predatory gaze from her mind—if she didn't… she might just wind up hunting him down and beating him senseless.

The forest was quiet around her; the sound of the insects and birds stirring in agitation as she ran through their domain was accompanied only by the sound of her heart pounding in her ears and her feet as they hit the ground. The wooded parts of the campus were the only thing that could quell the aching that sometimes took root in her chest; they reminded her of the forests near her village back home, which was why she often retreated to their peaceful solitude.

_Home._

_ God, how she longed for it._

It was the first thought in her mind upon waking, and the last thing in her tired thoughts as she drifted off to sleep; it filled her dreams, taunting her with sights and sounds and memories that tore at her heart—like the way the sunlight glinted off the Loch, and the wonderful earthy smell of its water on the wind. She missed her Gran's special porridge with molasses drizzled on top of it, and the warmth of the fire that was always burning in the hearth. She missed Ma and Gram and Uncle Aidan, Aunt Nora and their wee twins—a boy and a girl, cute as buttons, barely three years old.

She wanted to go home, wanted to see her family—she wanted it more than anything—but there was nothing left to return to.

She stopped running, doubling over as a wave of grief hit her—so strong it felt like something had stabbed her straight through the chest. Collapsing to her knees, her scream of anguish echoed through the trees, startling the birds into flight. She should have been there—if she'd been there… she could have kept them all safe.

_But she hadn't been—and now they were gone._

It was a stupid, foolish thought—in truth, if she'd been at home that night, she'd be in her grave too. If it hadn't been for Colleen Flannigan's pestering to sneak out and attend that damned secret party, she'd have been murdered and drained, just like the rest of them. She wasn't a guardian—not yet. She had no stake and was still in training—not nearly skilled enough to take out a single Strigoi, let alone a group of them. They'd beaten Aidan, hadn't they? He'd been a giant, bear of a man—strong as an ox, and one of the best guardians the village of Drumbuidhe had ever seen—so what hope would she have had if she'd been home?

_None—but she'd have died alongside them, where she belonged. _

Her ashes would have been mixed with her family's, spread on the waters of the beautiful Loch by the decent, hardworking villagers she'd known her entire life. Father Sheehan would have said a moving prayer, then everyone would have gathered at the pub to toast the Hathaway Clan, swapping tales of how brave—and belligerent— they'd been. Ben Callahan would have played his pipes while Old man Gibson played his fiddle—sending the family out in the same manner they'd done for countless others in the past.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she rocked herself—a self-soothing gesture she only allowed when no one else was around. Her tears were hot, bitter things, stinging her sweaty cheeks as they trailed down, dripping off her chin. She wanted her mother to hold her and comfort her—to tell her it was all nothing more than a horrible mistake. A pang of intense longing hit, making her yearn for the sound of her mother's voice, soft and gentle as a breeze on a warm spring day.

_I'm starting to forget how your laugh sounded, Ma—it's slowly slipping away from me. _

"Janine? Are you all right?"

She flinched, burying her face in the hollow where her legs pressed against her chest. Stupid, so stupid to break down here, where the guardians patrolled. "Got a charley horse… that's all. Made me take a tumble. I'll be right as rain in a minute or two—go on about yer patrol an' don't be worryin' about me."

"I can tell that is not the truth, malen'kiy zaychik—it makes me wonder… why would you lie to a friend?"

She tensed as he approached—her shoulders stiffening, waiting for the press of his hand. "I don't buy inta all that an' ya know it. Ain't no sixth sense or intuition—it's superstitious nonsense."

_No God either—if there was, I'd be at home with my family instead of here._

"Whether you believe or not is inconsequential, little one. I only know what I feel—sadness coming off you in waves, so thick it presses against my skin." He crouched down beside her, holding out a handkerchief. "I do not know the cause of it—but I would like to."

She took the small square of fabric, swiping at her eyes; it wasn't her way to talk about her feelings—she'd always kept them bottled up inside. "Touch of homesickness—it happens sometimes."

"I think it is more than that." He eased his legs out in front of him as he sat, reaching over and placing a finger beneath her chin. "I would like to help you, Janine—it is not good…not good at all… for you to feel this kind of melancholy and not discuss it with someone. I know it will not take away the pain… but it _will_ help, at least a little, to share the weight of it with me."

She wasn't sure if it was what he said or the gentle, caring sound of his voice that did it—but something triggered her, making the floodgate inside her break free. Before she could stop herself, it all spilled out—her agony laid bare before him. "I ain't got a home—not anymore. Ain't got no kin… I'm all alone, Savva—and it hurts. Hurts so much I can't breathe sometimes." It came out a whisper; she didn't look at him, her tear filled eyes stayed locked on the ground. "I don't have anywhere I belong."

"You belong here… where there are people that care about you, malen'kiy zaychik. And no matter what you think, I assure you, you're not alone. You have Sofiya and I—and while we cannot replace what you have lost… we will always be here for you. That is what you do for the people that you love—that is the important thing about family, I think… even more important than shared blood in your veins, yes?"

She glanced over at him, wondering if it could really be that simple. "But eventually you'll leave here. The two of ya will have a home an young ones… I don't wanna be intruding on that life."

"If your family were still alive… would you feel that you were intruding when you returned to them?"

"Course not—it's where I grew up. It was my home as much as theirs. Besides…. they'd want me there—wouldna take no fer an answer."

"Well… there you see—we feel the exact same way. You are the only friend Sofochka has ever had other than me… and being around you… it is good for her Janine. When we leave here, no matter where we go… our home will be yours, with a room and a bed… though maybe not your own bathroom—I am only a humble guardian, after all."

She smiled—just a little. "Aye, but hopefully I'll be a guardian too… so maybe I could pay fer me own bathroom."

"I probably should not tell you this…" his voice was hesitant, his dark eyes dropping to the ground, "but I will, because right now… I think you need to hear it. Maybe once you have… it will convince you that all I've said is true. Sofiya has asked her father to put in an offer when you graduate. She wants you to be my guarding partner—you're the only one she trusts to watch my back. Prince Badica agreed—and he said that he will top any offer you receive."

His words stunned her—so much that it drove her misery clear out of her mind. "That's ridiculous—I'm only at junior level. Ya got no idea if I'll be any good when I graduate… or if I'll even pass me trials."

"We have faith in you, malen'kiy zaychik. I think you will be one of the best—though I might have a hard time understanding you from time to time. When you get upset… your accent… it is very strong."

"Tis not! And I told ya not ta call me that—I'm not a damned animal," she huffed, though she knew he was right—her brogue was the reason she was taking diction classes three times a week.

"This is true… but you move like a rabbit on the mats—hopping and dodging so fast you are a blur—and you are very small… so I am afraid the name fits." He reached over, brushing a strand of her sweaty hair back off her forehead. "Now… tell me truthfully…is the sadness what made you cut class, or was there another reason?"

And just like that, all the anger and irritation she felt towards the Moroi visitor reclaimed the front and center position in her mind. "Trust me—ya don't wanna know. Iffin ya did… someone would be in fer a world of hurt."

He frowned, his jaw tensing. "Tell me. Now."

_She did._


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn't in the mood to engage in verbal banter, or to sweet talk a spoiled Princess into seeing things his way—and he sure as hell wasn't in the right frame of mind to deal with the high pitched, irritating sound of a grown woman whining like a child. Unfortunately, he didn't have much choice—Tatiana tracked him down in a record amount of time.

"I don't understand why you can't just come back now." Her voice was petulant; automatically, his jaw clenched. "Tell them to call me when everything is ready and you can return for it then."

How easily she _assumed_ he would be willing to drop everything and make the trip halfway across the country again. "Tell me, Tati… did it ever occur to you that I might not have wanted to make the trip in the first place—let alone make it a second time?"

She caught the flat tone in his voice, immediately backpedaling in an attempt to switch gears. "Some men would _appreciate_ that I place such high trust in them. They would understand that in doing do… I prepare them for greater things."

He made a dismissive sound. "Wrong card to play, darling—I'm not a lap dog, begging for your table scraps."

"I never said that you were—nor did I imply it." She sighed, the sound carrying clearly over the connection. "Try to see the bigger picture, Ibrahim. People gossip—rumors spread. Each time you perform some small task for me, they notice. It shows proof not just of your loyalty—but more importantly that I consider you my closest confidant. As such… it will only be natural for me to award you with a high ranking title like chancellor or even Royal advisor when I take the throne."

"Now that… that was _extremely _ well played." Such a position came with great power—and _power_ was the strongest aphrodisiac of all. It afforded one with a pure, sweet high that was better than any drug on the market. "Still doesn't mean I'm making the trip again—in fact… it makes me more determined than ever to stick around Saint Basil's for a few weeks… maybe even longer."

"Oh really." Her voice was dry—tight with irritation. "And why… pray tell… might that be?"

"Now now… don't get all prickly. It's really rather simple… and quite brilliant—I think you'll agree. Correct me if I'm wrong—Saint Basil's has the toughest curriculum out of any of the Academies. They consistently turn out the best guardians in the field… the type that a future queen would want as part of her roster. While I'm here… I can observe the novices—and pick out the ones I think would be the best candidates for joining your Royal Guard…if you get the crown."

"_When_ I get the crown," she corrected. She fell silent for a moment—it was so quiet that he could hear the sound of the match she struck, and the deep inhalation she made as she drew on her cigarette to light it. "You're right… it _is _ brilliant—exactly the kind of ammunition I'll need to use against the Council when they attempt to argue against my giving a non-Royal such a position."

"They'll still fight you tooth and nail to get one of their own the job, Tati—it could very well backfire and turn them all against you."

"Let them fight—they can't outwit me, Ibrahim. They can't outmaneuver _us._ It will take time… but slowly… we _will_ win them over to our way of thinking, Together…we're unstoppable."

There was an undercurrent to her statement that made him decidedly uncomfortable; an innuendo left unspoken—but definitely _implied._ It wasn't the first time—it was happening more and more frequently; when he confronted her about it she fervently denied any hidden meaning—but he could smell the lie in her protests.

He was happy with their… _arrangement_… as it stood; she wasn't. She wanted more; he didn't, and refused to be pressured in any way.

"Watch out darling… you're on the verge of making me chafe against the reins again."

_And when that happens… I'll bolt for freedom without pausing to look back._

"I only—"

"I know what you _said…_ and I know what you _meant_. Let's leave it at that."

"Of course." There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice—a fear that was well founded. She'd learned her lesson the last time she'd tried to have a discussion with him about settling down—he'd vanished for almost three months, only reappearing when he was sure she'd got the message. Wisely, she chose to change the subject. "You'll be back by the twenty first? Remember, Pricilla is having a party that night—we don't want to miss it."

He groaned. "God forbid we abstain from another boring dinner party. Who knows what kind of breaking news we might miss about who's fucking their guardian and who's kid is on the verge of flunking out."

"Really, Ibrahim! There's more to Cilla's parties than that and you know it—why are you in such a sour mood today?"

"You need a reason other than the fact I just spent more than two days travelling halfway across the fucking country?"

"You make it sound like you were stuck on a broken down bus; the train is extremely comfortable—"

"Wrong. They were out of compartments. And berths. I had to spend the entire time stuck in the day car—next to a family of ten that smelled like goats." His eyes narrowed in irritation at the sound she made. "Don't laugh at me, Tatiana."

"I'm sorry… really… I am… but you didn't _have_ to leave right away. You could have waited a day or two until they had proper accommodations available—"

"Despite what you may think, I do have a life that doesn't revolve entirely around your whims. I have a business to run—"

Her laughter interrupted him—this time she made no attempt to hide it. The sound conveyed her sarcasm as clearly as her tone did. "Do you forget who you're talking to, dearest? You and I know that silly little import export operation is nothing more than a cover for—"

"I'd choose my next words very carefully if I were in your shoes, _Princess_." His voice was low and dangerous—almost an angry growl. Whatever his sideline ventures he might take part in, Mazur Trading was something he took _pride _in_—_he would not stand for her belittling the business empire his great-great grandfather had broken his back to build. His other…_businesses_… might be nefarious, but when it came to his family's legacy, everything was legitimate and done by the book, honoring the memory of his forbearers.

"Oh please! You act as though you actually _care_ about selling carpets and trinkets to tourists! Honestly, Ibrahim—"

"What I _care_ about is none of your fucking business. It doesn't concern you or any arrangement we might have." It came out cold and biting—he meant it to. Leaning his head against the coolness of the window pane, he let his gaze travel across the manicured landscape—wondering for the hundredth time if it was time to cut his losses and walk away from the future queen. "I won't be attending the party. Find another escort."

"No! Don't say that—I'm sorry… I didn't mean—"

"You wanted to put me in my place and you did," he spotted a flash of color in a strand of trees in the distance—bright red, moving through the woods. A moment later, the Scottish dhampir stepped out of the forest, like a nymph or a dryad from some ancient, archaic tale. There was a strange, unfamiliar feeling stirring in his gut—but before he could process it, another emotion overshadowed the first.

_Irritation._

She wasn't alone.

He tensed, glaring as another dhampir appeared behind her. The man—tall and broad—slid his arm around her shoulders as she tilted her head up, smiling at something he'd said. "I have to go—something has come up. I'll call you… later."

"What? No—wait! Don't you dare hang up on me, not until we—"

Ignoring her protests, he slammed down the phone, scooping up his coat on his way to the door. The sight of Janine Hathaway with another man pissed him off—though he wasn't sure why. All he knew was that he was going to bring the dhampir's romantic stroll to a dramatic, screeching halt—no matter what it took.

* * *

_**A/N Quick one to respond to a review:**_

shayisaslytherin : YAY! Finally someone wrote something about Abe and Janine! It is about time!

Quick thing, though. Scottish and English aren't the same. Janine is Scottish. The accent is different there.

_**Yes, I am aware of that. My Aunt's 2nd husband (or maybe her third—it's hard to keep track since she's on her 5th) was from Orkney but he was educated at Cambridge; during his time in England he picked up on quite a bit of local dialect (bloody, etc). Janine's accent is loosely based on his. In future chapters we will learn more about her past and find out she's quite the little hellraiser; she's already been kicked out of three Academies—one of which was Saint Benedict's in England. That's part of the reason she was mentally worrying about doing something that might get her expelled—she's pretty much been told that Saint Basil's is her last chance to graduate. **_

_**(That's part of the reason she gets so frustrated with Rose—her troublemaking daughter reminds her waaaaay to much of how she used to be back in the day.)**_

_**;o)**_


	4. Chapter 4

There was something about the tall Russian Guardian that always put her at ease; she wasn't sure whether it was his calm demeanor or his frequent habit of making disparaging jokes at his own expense—but whatever the reason, no matter how sour her mood might be, spending time with Savva Luzhkov always made her feel better. Today was no different—listening to him describe all the things he would do to avenge her honor made her irate anger dissipate within minutes. By the time they headed back to her classroom, the two were engaged in a contest of sorts—each trying to top the other by spouting out outlandish ways they would teach the lecherous Moroi she'd encountered a much needed lesson in manners.

"Tie him to a tree buck naked an' let all the dhampir girls on campus stand around starin' at him," she quipped.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Ach—from the sound of him, he would probably enjoy that, malen'kiy zaychik."

"Not iffin we were makin' fun of the size of his equipment, he wouldn't."

"True… no man likes to have his shortcomings pointed out, especially by beautiful—"

"Miss Hathaway! I was hoping to run in to you again…"

Her head jerked around, eyes immediately narrowing. "Speak of the bloody devil."

Savva's arm tensed around her shoulder. "This is the man?"

"One an' the same," she muttered, cursing under her breath—the Moroi was rapidly approaching them. "Don't be gettin inta trouble on my account—"

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your… _friend_?" The charming smile the man flashed her was at odds with the heavy innuendo that laced the last word of his statement; he stopped less than a foot away from them, his dark eyes locked on the Guardian's face.

She glared at him. "Can't be introducin' someone I don't know—"

"Do you often let men you don't know put their arms around you, Miss Hathaway?"

"I meant you an' you damn well know it—"

"Ibrahim Mazur—my friends call me Abe." He held out his hand—she ignored it, glancing over at her friend; Savva had gone completely still at the mention of the man's name—his gaze was fierce, jaw tense as he stared at Mazur.

Frowning at her rebuff, the letch narrowed his eyes, meeting Savva's ferocious stare with one of his own. "And you are?"

"Guardian Savva Luzhkov."

She was absurdly pleased by the way Savva pointedly ignored the outstretched hand too. "Ain't nobody here gonna be callin' you anythin' but Lord Mazur—"

His deep chuckle cut her off. "I'm not a Royal, sweetheart. Far from it."

She bristled at the endearment—the Guardian beside her did the same, though he remained coldly polite. "You will excuse us, Mr. Mazur."

"Tell me… Luzhkov, was it? Do you make a habit of being overly familiar with the novices here on campus? I seem to recall there being a rule against that sort of thing." Mazur stepped closer, narrowing the distance between them—infringing on the Guardian's personal space.

"No I do not—however, I am fairly certain the same cannot be said for you, _sir_."

A muscle in Mazur's cheek twitched. "Mhmmm… so the reason you're hanging on Miss Hathaway like a life raft is?"

"None o' your damned business," she snapped, her temper flaring; as if he could sense how close she was to the edge, Savva's hand tightened on her shoulder, holding her in place.

"Janine will be my guarding partner—"

"Apparently you mean _partner_ in every sense of the word," the Moroi said snidely, cutting him off. "At least you won't have to worry about knocking her up—"

She realized too late that she wasn't the only one whose control was dancing on the razors edge of breaking—Savva lunged at Mazur, his fist connecting with the Moroi's jaw before she could grab his arm to restrain him. "Savva! No!"

To her immense shock, the Moroi stayed on his feet; he spit out a mouthful of blood, balling his hands into fists. "Not bad… Not bad at all," he growled, immediately throwing a punch of his own—planting his fist in the Guardian's stomach as she tried to pull him away.

The unexpected punch caught the dhampir by surprise; his breath rushed out of him—but he didn't falter. Muttering a stream of Russian under his breath that was far too fast for her brain to translate, he flew at Mazur, fists flying; she watched, eyes widening with amazement as the Moroi held his own, blocking and countering the larger man's punches with the kind of speed and grace that took years of hard-core training. Despite his lean physique, he seemed evenly matched with Savva, thought the dhampir was almost twice as broad with bulky muscle.

Watching them scuffle like misbehaving boys in a schoolyard, she narrowed her eyes, quickly appraising the situation. They were practically out in the open—fighting where anyone could see them; it wouldn't be good if Savva was caught manhandling a guest of the Academy—it would most assuredly go down as a black mark on his record, causing him problems later on.

The thought spurred her into action—she threw herself in between them… straight in the path of the Moroi's oncoming fist. Distracted by her worries about Savva's future, she didn't think to dodge the blow—it caught her full on the mouth, the force of it rocking her head back and splitting her lip.

The fight came to an immediate, screeching halt—Mazur stared at her with a look of horror on his face.

"Shit! I'm sorry—"

"Nah," she said, gingerly wiping away the blood that was streaming from her lip, "but you will be iffin you ever touch me again."

Heedless of the warning she'd delivered, he reached for her chin—she sidestepped, avoiding his hand, but he still didn't get the message. Grabbing her arm, he leaned forward, eyes locked on her mouth, " Hold still… let me see—"

She reacted automatically—punching him in the face.

"God damn it!" He jerked his hand back,reaching up to probe the area around his cheekbone. "I was trying to help you—why in the fuck did you hit me?"

"Told you not to be touchin' me, didn't I?" She snapped. "Maybe havin' a shiner will remind you to keep your damned hands to yourself!"

The sound of Savva's low chuckle spun her around; she scowled at him fiercely. "What's so funny?"

"Here I am trying to defend your honor… and you do a far more effective job of it, malen'kiy zaychik."

"O' course I did—I don't need any man protectin' me!" Her eyes flicked back to the Moroi—he was glaring at them with hooded eyes. "Well? Why are you still standin' there? Run on and report me to the headmaster for strikin' you—that's what your kind does, isn't it?"

"You don't know anything about _my kind_ at all, Miss Hathaway. I don't let other people handle my dirty work—I do it myself. Revenge is much more satisfying when it's up close and personal."

"Is that a threat then? Should I be shakin' in my boots?" She crossed her arms, shooting him a look that clearly said she wasn't frightened in the slightest by his ominous statement.

Mazur's lips twitched up in a sly, completely wicked looking smile. "No—it's a preview of coming attractions sweetheart."

With that cryptic statement, he turned and walked away, heading towards the building that housed the Royal Guest suites; her brow wrinkled as she watched him—despite her flippant attitude, his words troubled her far more than she cared to admit.

"Does it hurt Janine? We should get you to the infirmary—"

"Nah—just stings a wee bit. I'll be fine." Glancing over at her friend, she winced— one side of his jaw was already swelling. "You need to get cleaned up… it's already half past—almost time for class to let out. Sofiya will take one look at you and go into a panic."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but at the mention of his girlfriend worrying, he bit back whatever protests he was on the verge of making, nodding his head. "You're right—I'll grab a quick shower… I can say I was at the gym… that I lost a sparring match."

"She won't believe it—you never lose," she pointed out.

"It is the best I can do." He sighed, his forehead creasing. "I will tell her I was distracted by a disturbing rumor I heard involving a certain red haired novice being harassed by a Moroi guest. That she will believe… provided you back me up."

"Course I will." She bit her lip—immediately regretting it when pain shot through the swollen flesh. "Could you be writin' me a pass? I don't wanna go back to class—I'm too keyed up. Thinkin' I'll head over to the gym for a workout to burn off some energy."

"I will do better than that—I'll speak to Professor Grasavich myself." He smiled, pushing a strand of hair back out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Go on… the faster you calm down the faster you can join us—Sofiya will wonder where you are hiding."

"Just tell her I felt the need to work on my backflip—I was complaining about it at lunch." Stretching up, she pressed her lips against his cheek—careful to avoid the swelling. "Thank you for tryin' to help… it means a lot."

"Anytime… that's what friends are for, yes?"

She smiled as she pulled back, turning to leave, but his hand on her arm stopped her. "Janine… promise me you'll avoid Mazur if you see him around campus. He has a… reputation—"

"I'm not naive, Savva—I know a ladies man when I see one."

"That is not the kind of reputation I mean, malen'kiy zaychik. He is a very dangerous man… not the sort you want to tangle with."

She frowned. "I'd say it's a little late for that… and you certainly weren't concerned about him being dangerous when you charged him like a mad bull—"

"I let my anger at the insult he threw out get the better of me." The Guardian sighed, rubbing his jaw. "I will do some digging… find out why the serpent is slithering around campus. Until then… steer clear of him, yes?"

She shot him a pointed look. "Only if you do the same. He's bound to hold a grudge against you for touslin' with him."

"Agreed." He nodded, releasing her arm. "Thank you, malen'kiy zaychik. The last thing I need to worry about is you trying to match wits with Zmey—no one ever wins against him… he is the master of the game."

"What's that mean… Zmey?"

"In the oldest stories, it is one of the name of the great dragon… a three headed serpent that cannot be killed… the one who tempted the mother of us all, leading her to sin. The fact Mazur has earned one of the names for Lucifer should tell you exactly the kind of man he is."

"I got enough trouble without invitin' the devil in," she agreed. "Now go on… off with you—time is scarce"

"You will be in the little gym, yes? We will meet you there in say… an hour and a half?"

She nodded as he turned away—lingering on the path for a moment, contemplating what he'd said. A disturbing comparison sprang up in her mind almost immediately—one that turned her cheeks turned bright red, leaving her wondering where on earth the thought had come from. Squaring her shoulders, she strode off towards the smallest of the four gymnasiums on Saint Basil's sprawling campus, determined not to think about Ibrahim Mazur for a single second more—or the fact that the unusual nickname was strangely fitting for the irritating, arrogant Moroi.

_A man who just happened to be as darkly handsome as the Devil himself was said to be._


	5. Chapter 5

He slammed the door of the suite so hard that one of the huge, framed portraits fell off the wall—the gilded frame splintering from its impact with the marble as it smashed against the floor. Glaring down at the haughty expression on the face of the long dead Ivashkov depicted on the canvas, his anger doubled, roaring through him like an inferno. The woman's expression almost looked _mocking_—as if she was thinking that he didn't belong in _her _ room.

"Fuck!" He shouted, lashing his foot out—his kick went straight through the old bitch's face, tearing the canvas in two. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

Spinning around, he stalked over to the table where he'd deposited his attaché case before he'd left the room; his hands were shaking as he spun the combination lock—popping the latches, he grabbed the ridiculous gold cigarette case Tatiana had given him, extracting one of the long, thin cylinders from within. Normally, the potent Izmar tobacco from his homeland would calm his ire, chasing back the worst of his anger, but after the first few drags, he realized that wouldn't be occurring any time soon.

He began to pace, running over the altercation in his head—trying to figure out how it had gone so completely wrong. The fault was his—he knew that, and could own it; his own impulsive nature had gained the upper hand over his common sense.

But what had set him off? Was it the Guardian's dismissive tone? The contemptuous way the Hathaway girl had glared at him?

No… the cold, hard truth was that it wasn't either of those things at all—nor the half dozen other excuses that circled through his brain.

Though he would never admit it to another living soul, it was the way his gut had tightened in a painfully tight knot, and the wave of turbulent emotions that had flared to life inside of him at the sight of Luzhkov's possessive hand caressing her shoulder.

Turning abruptly, he wandered through the suite—down a narrow hall, searching for a powder room; flicking on the light switch when he found it, he ignored the opulence around him—his gaze locked on the mirror, studying his reflection… trying to decipher the confusing mix of intense emotions he was feeling.

His dark eyes were full of pent up anger, but that was nothing new; it was always there, lingering deep within—fueled by far too many things to name. The loss of his mother… his father's cold distance…the rejection of the mighty clan who's blood flowed through his veins. A lifetime of being made to feel like he was beneath them all, simply because he didn't share their last name.

No… it wasn't the anger that troubled him at all—it was the other emotions that hid behind it that left him feeling confused. Things he hadn't felt since he was a small boy on the playground, hiding in the shadows and watching other children his age perched on their mother's laps, receiving kisses and cuddles for scraped up elbows and bruised knees.

Sadness… uncertainty… those were there, along with loss and betrayal—not to mention an aching rejection that clawed at his very soul.

He leaned closer to the mirror, eyes widening in surprise; was that it? Was he _envious _that the Guardian was so friendly with the girl?

Yes… he was. For some unknown, obscure reason, _he_ wanted to be the one that made her smile and laugh. To touch her with such casual nonchalance, as if it were no one's right but his.

Holy shit.

He was _jealous_ of a fucking _dhampir._

Unbelievable.

On the verge of turning away from the mirror, he actually _looked_ at his reflection; there were several bruises blooming on his face, but the one from Janine Hathaway's fist was the one that caught his eye. The area under his eye and along the ridge of his cheekbone was swollen, and puffy—turning a livid, angry shade of purplish red.

"Son of a bitch!"

Tentatively probing the area with his fingertips, he hissed as pain shot up and down the entire side of his face. Automatically he tensed, waiting for the pain to rouse the black rage that had ridden him when he entered the suite, but to his surprise, he didn't get pissed off at all—instead… he felt _remorse._

In all his life, he'd never raised a hand in anger against a member of the fairer sex; women were to be revered—put on a pedestal to be worshiped and cherished as the sacred givers of _life_. They were to be handled with a gentle touch—each caress paying them honor, expressing their worth.

He hadn't meant to hit her—hell, for that matter he hadn't meant to hit her goon of a playmate either; his hormones had simply overridden his brain, demanding he show her _his_ skill and strength. He'd reverted to the mentality of a fucking teenage boy, trying to impress her with a show of dominant force, proving he was a better catch than the dhampir at her side.

Judging by her reaction, she hadn't been impressed in the slightest. The look of complete loathing she'd shot him after punching him in the face clearly expressed that he'd fucked things up beyond redemption. There was no point sticking around—

… or was there?

Running his fingertips along his cheek, his lips curved up in a sly, cunning smile. Janine Hathaway had meant for the bruised flesh to serve as a warning… but instead, it simply gave him the leverage he needed. Retreating to the sitting room, he scooped up the phone, punching the button marked 'guest services'—rolling his eyes at the simpering voice that picked up on the other end of the line.

"Tell the headmaster that Ibrahim Mazur is on his way over… and he better not even _think_ of keeping me waiting."

* * *

_**A/N Shilo 1364—thanks for the heads up re the chapter mix up! This is why I shouldn't attempt to post chapters with a migraine, lol. Here's the real chapter 5—chapters 6 and 7 should be up later today(Sunday)/first thing Monday AM. ;o)**_


	6. Chapter 6

He wasn't a patient man in the slightest; when he spoke, he meant what he said—and when he said 'jump', the only thing he wanted to hear in response was 'how high'. He didn't tolerate excuses, and he didn't have time for power plays—not unless he was the one performing them. Glaring across the counter at the same sniveling clerk who had managed to rouse his ire a short while before, he waited for the man to buzz the Headmaster, announcing his arrival.

"I'm sorry sir, he's not available right now. I could pencil you in sometime later this evening—"

"Did I ask to make an appointment, or did I ask you to tell Boreyev I was here?"

"I can't do that—he said he has a fully booked schedule up until… hey! Wait—Mr. Mazur! You can't just—"

"Watch me," he growled, ignoring the little weasels protests—moving around the counter and storming towards the door marked with the headmasters name. He didn't knock—he walked right in, glaring at the man behind the large, expensive looking desk. "What part of 'don't keep me waiting' was too complicated for you to understand?"

"I'm sorry sir! He wouldn't listen—"

The headmaster held up his hand, silencing the young man. "It's alright—go back to your station."

"If you're sure—"

"I am." Boreyev unfolded himself from his chair, standing up and coming around the desk. "My sincerest apologies, Mr. Mazur… I was unaware—"

"I told that bimbo operating the switchboard to tell you I was coming—"

"I only just returned from a meeting—"

"Don't interrupt—you really don't want to piss me off even more, Boreyev." Without waiting for an invitation, he plopped down in one of the large leather wingback chairs facing the desk. "Your little guard dog told me you said I had to make an appointment—want to tell me that to my face?"

"I assure you I said no such thing." Boreyev ran his hand over his hair, returning to his chair. "I will speak with him about it as soon as we are through here. Had I known you wanted to see me I certainly would have—"

"Save it. Do you see my face, Boreyev?" He crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair. "How do you think Princess Ivashkov is going to react when she hears that I can't escort her to any Royal events because I look like I went ten rounds in a boxing ring?"

The headmaster's eyes flicked over his face—widening as realized what was being implied. "Are you saying someone on this campus—"

"Well I don't know, you tell me," he said, sarcastically. "Was my face black and blue when you saw me earlier? I sure as hell didn't run into a damn wall on my way over here."

"What happened—"

"I was _accosted_ by one of your Novices, what the fuck do you think?"

Boreyev's lips compressed into a thin line. "If you'll give me the name of the guilty party and a statement as to what happened—"

"The how doesn't matter… it _shouldn't_ have happened at all. An incident like this is more than enough to make Tatiana rethink her sponsorship for the renovations—in fact… it will probably sour her on this Academy altogether." He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, staring at the man across from him—pleased to see the snooty headmaster squirm under the weight of his gaze. "I'm sure you're aware that four Academies will be closing within the next two years due to the ever expanding sprawl of humanity and their need to buy up every single tract of vacant land for housing developments. What remains to be seen… is where the funding that was allotted to those institutions will be redirected. It's down to Saint Basil's and Saint Vladimir's… but most of the council seems to be in favor of diverting those funds to Saint Vlad's. Tatiana is the only one undecided on the issue… you might say she'll be the tiebreaker when the vote is held. Her decision is the one that will make all the difference in the world."

"The Princess can hardly blame Saint Basil's as a whole for the actions of one—"

"She can… and she _will._ Tatiana Ivashkov isn't exactly the most diplomatic woman when it comes to personal insults, Boreyev… and this?" He pointed at his face, smirking. "It's something very, _very_ personal to her."

Leaning back in his chair, the headmaster studied his visitor for a moment, eventually clearing his throat. "I take it you have some form of… reparation in mind?"

"The person who hit me needs a few lessons on acceptable behavior. She needs to learn her place in the grand scheme of things."

"Obviously," Boreyev said drily.

"For the duration of my stay, I want her to serve as my assistant—sort of a Guardian slash secretary arrangement."

"I'm assuming your assailant is one and the same with the Scottish Novice you were admiring? Perhaps she decided to convey her displeasure at your attentions in a way that could not be misunderstood?"

"You can assume anything you damn well want—I'm not confirming anything other than the fact Miss Hathaway did _this—_" He pointed to the swollen flesh along his cheekbone—mentally patting himself on the back for finding a way to word his statement that would pass a lie detector test, if one had been on hand.

"I'd hoped you would be a bit more discreet in your pursuits—the last thing I need is for this institution to be drug into some sort of tawdry scandal, Mr. Mazur." The headmaster shook his head, frowning—completely oblivious to the fact his guest had gone completely still. "I'm sorry, but as accommodating as I might want to be, I simply _cannot_ pull a Novice out of her scheduled classes to serve as some sort of… _companion _for you—she would fall behind on her academic coursework as well as her training. Furthermore, I believe it is a safe assumption that Princess Ivashkov would be furious to find our we had provided you with a dhampir girl to—"

"I'd think really carefully about whatever it is that's about to come out of your mouth, Boreyev. Right now my grievance is with this Academy… but you're about to make it between _you_ and _me_. I can _promise_ that's something you _don't_ want to do." His voice was soft, but his tone was completely at odds with his calm appearance—each word edged with razor sharp barbs.

"I didn't mean to imply—"

"Clearly you did or you wouldn't have fucking said it," he snapped, leaning forward and affixing the older man with a murderous glare.

Boreyev pinched the bridge of his nose—obviously disturbed by the threat. "My sincerest apologies… however, that does not change the fact that Novice Hathaway cannot miss her scheduled classes—"

"I didn't say a thing about pulling her out of class—you did." Smiling smugly, he pulled a small, rectangular black object from the interior pocket of his suit coat—leaning forward, he set it on Boreyev's desk. "She'll carry that on her at all times. When I need her…. I'll notify her."

Boreyev glanced down at the object, his brow wrinkling with confusion. "What—"

"It's a beeper—I import them from Taiwan. I could actually make you a hell of a deal on them if you place a bulk order… something to keep in mind _if_ you get that additional funding." He sat back, arching a brow. "This is what's going to happen. You'll give me a copy of Miss Hathaway's schedule so I know when she's in class. I'll try not to contact her during school hours—however, during her off time, she works for me. In the event I might need to leave the wards for an hour or two during school hours… you'll excuse her from any classes she misses or tardiness she racks up due to being in my service."

"Mr. Mazur… I don't think—"

"I didn't ask you to think, Boreyev—I told you how it's going to be." He stood up, straightening his suite jacket—staring at the headmaster as he adjusted his tie. "In two hours I'll be paging Novice Hathaway on that device. If her perky little ass isn't knocking on the door to my suite within fifteen minutes of being paged… I'll be calling Tati to discuss the fact I was assaulted on your campus. It can go either way—how it plays out is entirely up to _you_."


	7. Chapter 7

Out of all the Academies she'd attended, Saint Basil's was the largest by far; situated in a vast, forested area it was far from any major human cities—though she'd been told there were several Moroi and dhampir settlements that were accessible within a few hours drive. The Siberian Taiga offered more than enough isolated space for the institute to spread out and grow as time progressed—as a result, the grounds of the Russian Academy could easily hold all three of her former schools, and still have room to spare. Considering it was the first Academy founded, it made sense—for centuries, Saint Basil's had flourished without attracting attention, continually expanding its boundaries, becoming the epicenter for education in the Moroi world.

Her first week, she'd gotten lost several times trying to travel between the massive campuses; to her surprise, her instructors understood her tardiness—they'd even gone out of their way to mark down shortcuts on the map she'd been given during orientation. Not wanting to take advantage of their kindness, she'd made a point of familiarizing herself with the grounds during her free time—by her third week, she was as familiar with her surroundings as the students who'd been there for years.

The occupied portion of the Academy was divided into four massive sectors, each containing the facilities needed for the purpose it served. The center most quadrant held the administrative complex and the Guardian buildings, as well as the mammoth residence where Royal guests were housed for overnight and extended stays. The centralized location made the buildings easily accessible for the students of both the Upper and Lower campuses, which flanked it on either side, running from East to West, though the boarders between the individual quadrants were clearly defined by the large courtyards, statuaries and ornamental gardens that were prerequisites for all Moroi schools. The Lower campus contained all the buildings and dorms for the pre-school, primary and intermediate grades, while the Upper held the same things for secondary and Lyceum students. The remaining sector—the Tertiary campus—sat to the North, abutting and running the length of the other three; out of all the campuses, it was the only one that was existed solely for the use of dhampirs. In essence, it was a University, of sorts—the place where newly graduated Guardians who wanted to become instructors at Academies took an additional year of intensive training. It was also the only sector that held two gymnasiums—the larger was strictly for the Guardians to use, while the smaller of the two was available to a small selection of students who showed aptitude in one unique area.

Janine Hathaway happened to be one of those elite few. The only problem was, to get to the Tertiary campus, she had to cross the middle quadrant of the campus—which meant walking smack dab past the building Ibrahim Mazur had entered.

As she approached the enormous Guest Residence, she couldn't resist glancing up—automatically wondering which windows belonged to the room The Moroi man had been had been assigned. She'd only been inside once, a few weeks earlier, when Sofiya's father had come for a visit and the Prince had insisted his daughter bring her dhampir friends to a lavish dinner in his suite—the largest one in the wing that was reserved for the Badica clan. She'd silently marveled over the expensive furnishings and golden fixtures—and been completely terrified that she would somehow manage to soil the fine linens or break something during the course of the meal. Her nerves had been so great that her hands had started trembling whenever she reached for her glass—Prince Badica noticed, immediately asking what was wrong. She'd answered him truthfully, admitting her fear; he'd smiled in response, reaching out to knock his own wineglass off the table—it shattered to smithereens when it hit the marble floor, then he'd told her now that the worst had happened, she should relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.

It was the kindest thing any Royal had ever done for her.

Realizing that she was still staring up at the windows, she blushed, averting her eyes; if Mazur happened to glance out and see her staring, he might get the wrong idea. Irritated at herself for looking up in the first place, she hastened her steps to a jog, hoping he hadn't seen her. The Moroi would never believe that she had to pass the building to access the Tertiary campus—he'd probably assume she was lingering outside, hoping to catch his eye or even worse, wanting to apologize for socking him in the face.

Cutting across the large courtyard that served to separate the sectors, she bypassed the scenic footpath, opting instead to take the shortcut Savva had shown her. The dirt trail wasn't nearly as pretty as the precisely laid flagstones that were lined with flowering bushes and decorative plants—in fact, the surrounding forest had been hacked back, freeing the trail of low laying hazards for the Guardians that patrolled it. However, it was a straight shot, saving her from ten minutes of walking on the twisting, turning pathway—something that was far more important than a postcard perfect view.

The forest thinned out, bisecting at a tall wrought iron fence; she took the right fork, digging in her pocket for the laminated clearance pass the Academy's Head Guardian had presented her with the day she arrived on campus. Handing it to the dhampir that monitored the gate, she tapped her foot impatiently as he checked it against the roster—grunting her thanks when he handed it back, waving her through.

"The amount of time you put in, you must be nearly as good as Larisa Latynina by now, yes?" The gray haired Guardian said—chuckling when she shot him a blank look in return.

"Is that a student?"

"Good God no—she participated in the Olympics… won the Soviet Union nine gold medals."

"I'm nowhere as good as all that—sorry. Only reason I do it is to work on balance." She flashed him an apologetic smile as she passed. "Anyone else in there, or will I be havin' it to myself?"

"It's all yours—the primary students cleared out a half hour ago."

Pleased with his response, she nodded, continuing down the walkway—heading towards the area where the athletics facilities were located when the path forked again. She reached the larger of the two gymnasiums first—it was the one that was strictly reserved for Guardian use, three times as big as the other gyms on the Academy's grounds; it shared a track with a smaller gym that was perhaps a quarter of its size—earning it the nickname 'little gym' amongst the staff and the students. The smaller structure came into view—she hastened her steps, spurred on by the overwhelming urge to be inside, away from everyone.

The familiar smell of chalk dusk greeted her as she entered the dim interior—it brought a smile to her lips, reminding her of all the hours she'd put in with her Mentor at her last school. Bertie Petrov had been much more than an advisor—the woman had become a good friend; despite the fact she'd been ungrateful and often bordered on disrespect, the older dhampir had never given up, going above and beyond to help insure her Mentee would succeed.

Inevitably, as she entered the locker room to change her clothing, her mind began wandering, as it did every time she worked out in the little gymnasium; her memories drifted into the past, taking her back to the day her fate had been sealed—when Saint Basil's became her last hope. She'd been happy at Saint Adomnán's—the language was her own, although the accents were a wee bit different, and she'd slowly managed to accumulate a small group of friends… ones who'd encouraged her to focus on her studies and helped her to raise her grades. Her days of wild parties and sneaking out were over—she'd learned her lesson the hard way after being kicked out of Saint Benedict's—she was determined to do her best, avoiding all distractions and staying out of trouble. It was an easy enough task to accomplish, once she'd found the perfect outlet for all the pent up anger and frustration inside her—an outlet she'd never have even considered had it not been for Bertie.

_"Janine… today I want you to try something different."_

_She sank down on the bench beside the woman to tighten the laces of her trainers. "Aye? What would that be?"_

_The older woman reached over, stilling her hands, "Don't—you won't need shoes today. I want to show you some basic gymnastics moves."_

_She scoffed at the idea. "Tumblin'? What's with you Russians and your love for acrobatics?"_

_Her Mentor's gray eyes were calm and steady—she wasn't put out in the slightest by the dismissive tone of her mentee's voice. "I can't speak for all Russians, but it's a beautiful sport—and it works all the same muscle groups that sparring does. You're small, Janine—there will be instances when knowing how to maneuver your way out of a fight in an unexpected way will save your life."_

_"Aye—I already know it. It's called running, Bertie."_

_"Please… I'm being serious. Your only shortcoming is your balance—that's why you have so much trouble finding your center after you parry a blow or throw a punch. A tiny fumble like that is all the advantage a Strigoi will need."_

_She frowned, playing with the laces of her shoes. It was true—she often found herself stumbling back when her feet should have been firmly planted in place. "Tumblin' will help with that?"_

_"I believe so. It will make it easier for you to find your center of gravity when you rebound." The older dhampir sighed, pulling her sandy blonde hair back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. "There's something else you should know… I'm just not quite sure how to tell you."_

_"Just spittin' it out always works for me," she offered, tugging off her shoes and tossing them back in her bag._

_"I've been offered a field position—working in the South of France. I'm… I'm going to accept it, Janine."_

_She froze. "You're leaving?"_

_"Try to understand… if I don't take it… I might not get another offer. My former charges mother is an important woman—she has connections and a grudge against me. Lady Ozera has done everything she can to ruin my career… I have to take this assignment to prove that the rumors she's spreading about my incompetence are wrong."_

_"They'll kick me out," she said softly, staring down at her feet. All of her hard work… all of the changes she's made in her life, trying to make up for the past—none of it would matter one bit. "The only reason they let me in is cause you were mentoring me, Bertie."_

_"I know… I already spoke with the Headmistress and she said as much—but I have a solution, Janine. My Uncle is the Head Guardian at Saint Basil's… he said he'd do whatever was needed to get your transfer there approved. He called me this afternoon to tell me the Headmaster is willing to take you on a probationary status. If you stay out of trouble for twelve weeks, they'll consider your record clean—you'll be able to continue like any other novice, without needing a Mentor."_

_"Saint Basil's? I don't speak a lick of Russian, let alone understand it!" Hot tears of frustration filled her eyes—she ducked her head down, trying to hide them away. "I'll flunk out in a fortnight—"_

_"They offer classes in English too—they have an entire department devoted to foreign language studies, as well as classes on diction. I swear Janine, you'll get a much better education there—better training than you could get at any other Academy, and I'm not just saying that to get you to agree. Saint Basil's consecutively turns out the best Guardians in the core—most of the Royal Guard are graduates. The training… it's intense—you'll work harder than you've ever worked in your life… but in the end, it will make you one of the best in the field."_

_Despite her misgivings, the thought of being good enough to one day be a member of the Royal Guard was intriguing—and if they truly wiped her record clean, her past actions wouldn't come back to haunt her in the future. Swiping at her cheeks, she glanced over at her Mentor, wondering if the offer was too good to be true. "Will they be makin' me tumble? Is that where you learned it?"_

_"No—though I did assist the gymnastics teacher there for extra credit a few times. It's a required course for younger students—whether or not they take it as an elective when they advance is up to them." For a moment, the woman stared off into space, a faint smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "I learned when I was a little girl. My father paid for me to attend classes at a human gymnasium in Saint Petersburg. I loved it… but I grew too tall to keep it up… and by then Papa's Moroi wife was pregnant—he lost interest in me once her twins were born."_

_There was a wistful longing in the woman's voice, but whether it was for the hobby she felt so strongly about or for the Moroi father who'd abandoned her, Janine couldn't say—all she knew was that she hated to hear such sadness in her friends voice. "Well… then I suppose we best be making use of the time we have—are you gonna show me what to do, or am I just supposed to figure it out on me own?"_

Blinking rapidly, she pulled her thoughts back into the present, slamming her locker shut and heading out into the gym. Her warm up was quick, and perfunctory— a few toe touches and deep knee bends were enough, thanks to the trek she'd made across the campus. Approaching the mats, her lips compressed in a thin determined line—she launched herself forward, feet pounding against the padded material as she built up her momentum. Every movement was precise to the point of being mechanical—she certainly didn't care about achieving the fluid grace that professionals exhibited; she didn't have Bertie's passion for the sport, but she had something else—sheer determination to incorporate all the techniques and tricks available, turning herself into the best Guardian she could be. The flips and ariels kept her muscles long and loose, strengthening her core, and her rebounds were spot on perfect, with nary a stumble—proof that her Mentor had been right about the tumbling helping her achieve perfect balance.

"You look so graceful… I wish I could move like that."

The soft voice from the shadows was completely unexpected; she spun around, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall before searching for the girl who'd spoken. "Good God! Were you aimin' to startle me out of my skin, girl? I think I'll have to buy you a bell to wear around your neck, so I know when you're sneaking up on me."

Soft laughter met her statement as the voice's owner moved out of the shadows. "I didn't want to disturb you until you took a break… I was afraid I might make you hurt yourself."

"Lost track of time, I did… been standing there long?"

"Only a few minutes."

"Savva said he'd give me an hour and a half—you're a wee bit early." There was an unspoken question hiding in her words, hanging in the air between them. She wouldn't outright ask where the Guardian was—not when the look in her friend's eyes was almost frantic. It was a warning sign she'd come to recognize fairly easily over the past few weeks. Sofiya tried to be independent, but the truth of the matter was that her fragile emotional state made it almost impossible for her to function on her own.

"He's chatting with Guardian Nurivitch at the gate…I told him I needed a few minutes to talk to you alone… about female things."

Her eyebrows shot up quizzically—she wasn't one for girl talk. "What kind of—"

"It was a fib. I need your help with something… but he can't know about it." Sofiya Badica stopped a few feet away; her brow wrinkled, eyelids fluttering closed—a sure sign she was struggling, trying to control the disorder in her mind. "His birthday is in two weeks… I want to throw him a surprise party… but I'm not really sure how to go about it."

"Easy enough. Invite a few of the Guardians he's friendly with… play some music and have some drinks—"

"Not _that_ kind of a party… a nice one. With a sit down dinner and… you know… an adult kind of thing."

"You're askin' the wrong person, darlin'—I don't know anything about that sort of party."

"You have to know more than I do—you've been out in the world… I haven't been anywhere but home and here. You've been all over… gone to three different schools—"

"Four." She made a face. "But the only kind of party I ever attended was with kids my own age, with music and booze and a few tidbits to snack on. Nothin' formal like what you're sayin'."

The Moroi girl began to pace, her face scrunching up as if she were about to cry. "I _have_ to do this… he deserves it! He does so much for me, Janine… I have to show him how much he means to me!"

"Don't go gettin' yourself into a tizzy, darlin', we'll figure somethin' out," she said softly, slowly moving closer to her friend. One of the first things she'd learned about the girl was her propensity for lightning fast mood swings; her worry doubled as Sofiya's hand began to twitch—it was another sign the girl was mentally drifting. She had to calm her down—and fast. "I'll ask around—find out what we'll be needin'. Just leave it all to me, alright? I'll handle it for you… I promise."

"No… I'm being selfish, aren't I? I shouldn't have asked you… you're so busy. You need to study and—"

"Let me worry about that—you've been helpin' me with my Russian, I'd say it's a fair exchange for me to help you."

She was close enough to see the swirling confusion in her friends eyes still—a look of concern replacing it. "Janine… what happened to your face?"

Racking her brain for a lie, she tried to ignore the heat that flared up in her cheeks—the worst part of inheriting her Gran's coloring was the inability to hide away her embarrassment. "Ah, nothin' for you to worry about—trainin' accident. My sparrin' partner caught me off guard, punched me right in the mouth. Does it look horrible?"

"No… it just looks painful." Sofiya reached out, fingertip lightly brushing against the wound.

The gesture startled her—instead of the normal coolness she'd expect to feel, the Moroi's touch was extremely warm… so warm it felt feverish. "You're not sick, are you? Your skin is warm… maybe I best take you to the infirmary."

"I feel fine… physically, at least. Mentally… it's a bad day." Sofiya flashed a sweet smile, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "But thank you for your concern."

"It's not normal for you to be warm like that Sofiya—" She pressed her hand against the girl's pale cheek, her brow wrinkling with confusion—her skin was cool to the touch. "Huh… maybe I'm the one needin' to see the nurse—punch musta been harder than I thought."

"You're probably just overly warm from your workout," Sofiya offered softly, turning her head as the hinges on the door at the entrance let out a squeal of protest. "Savva… you did not tell me she received an injury in training."

"It must have slipped my mind—I was preoccupied with my own wounded pride at being bested." The Guardian stepped out of the shadows of the corridor, freezing in his tracks as his eyes flicked between the two girls. "Sofochka… you didn't!"

"Only a little… please don't be mad." Sofiya's voice trembled—she shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

Narrowing her eyes, she glanced between the two of them, wondering what she was missing. "Doin' what, exactly?"

"Overtiring herself—it is a very long walk from the upper campus, yes?" He frowned, moving to take her in his arms; immediately she sagged against him, closing her eyes. "I'm not mad, my love… just concerned."

"He's right about that… as much as I enjoy your comin' to watch me, maybe from now on you shouldn't try it, darlin'—I do some flips and the like for you on the lawn behind the dorms if you're wantin' to see them."

Savva's dark eyes flicked up, his brow creasing. "A call came across the radio while I was talking to Nurivitch—Guardian Petrov is looking for you, Janine. He wants to see you in his office immediately."

She tensed. "Did he say what it was he was wantin'?"

"No… but he didn't sound happy." His brows knit together, his frown deepening. "I think it might be about the… incident… with the Academy's guest."

"Shite." She sighed, trying to ignore the way her stomach clenched with nerves. "So much for him handlin' his own grievances. Shoulda known that was a load of—"

"What incident?" Sofiya tilted her head back, peering up at Savva.

"I told you about it, my love, remember? The man was giving her inappropriate looks… making rude comments."

"Oh… yes. " She bit her lip, looking pensive. "Should I call my father? Ask him to intercede?"

"No—Savva told me your Da is willin' to put in a bid for me. Best he not find out about this, I think—might make him change his mind."

"If you need me to come with you, I can, malen'kiy zaychik—"

"No… I can handle it." Her eyes darted to the Moroi girl, then back to the Guardian; her brows raised—a silent attempt to convey the fact his girlfriend needed him far more than she did. "Our girl could probably use a wee bit of rest before dinner—she seemed a mite upset a few minutes ago."

Without waiting for a response, she headed for the locker room, her fingernails digging into the meaty flesh of her palms as she tried to hide her emotions; she couldn't let them see how upset she was, lest they insist on trying to intervene on her behalf.

"We'll save you a seat and grab you a tray," Sofiya's soft voice called after her.

"Aye—I'll see you there," she called back over her shoulder, mentally tacking on the one thing she couldn't say—the one thing she feared the most.

_Unless I get kicked out on my arse first._


	8. Chapter 8

She hadn't dared take the time to shower or even to change her clothes—there wasn't a moment to spare with Saint Basil's lead Guardian trying to hunt her down; retrieving her bag from her locker, she just shoved everything inside—sprinting back across campus towards the Guardian Services building like a Strigoi was snapping at her heels. It was a mistake—of course, as luck would have it, she realized that far too late to rectify her decision; she'd just have to deal with feeling grimy and being overly conscious of the sour smelling sweat that permeated her clothes and lingered on her skin. The best she could do was to detoured into the nearest bathroom once she reached her destination—splashing some water on her face and spritzing under her arms with the pine scented air freshener that rested on the window sill; it was a temporary fix, but at least she felt a tad bit more presentable for a meeting with the man who held the fate of her future smack dab in his hands.

Venturing further into the building, she stopped before the large reception desk, fidgeting as she waited for the woman stationed behind the counter to look up from the book she was reading—as soon as the clerk's eyes flicked up, she blurted out her reason for being there. "Janine Hathaway—I been told Guardian Petrov is looking for me."

"Ah… yes—He told me to send you right in as soon as you arrived. Do I need to show you—"

"No ma'am… I know where his office is." She tried to ignore the sympathetic look the woman shot her—she was feeling nervous enough without having to deal with commiseration from a stranger.

Moving past the reception desk, she traversed the short hallway beyond, her eyes locked on the door at the other end; a young Guardian with hair almost as red as her own was stationed beside it—his expression stony as he stared straight ahead, eyes affixed on the wall directly across from him.

"Are you waiting to see Guardian Petrov?" She eyed him, not wanting to knock if she was supposed to be waiting her turn.

"Yes… are you Hathaway?" When she nodded, he pushed away from the wall—opening the door and gesturing for her to enter. She brushed past him, shooting a quizzical look over her shoulder as he followed her in and closed the door behind them—immediately stationing himself beside it.

The rustle of papers drew her attention away from the Guardian's curious behavior; her eyes flicked over to the other man in the room as she slowly approached his desk. Guardian Leopold Petrov shared the same sandy blonde hair as his niece, though his was going gray at the temples. "You were looking for me, sir?"

"Novice Hathaway… I suppose you know why you're here?"

She shook her head. "No sir… I don't—I only know you wanted to see me immediately."

"Would you care to tell me what happened this afternoon?" He nodded his head towards the chairs facing his desk—a silent demand that she sit.

Collapsing into the chair, she frowned—trying her best to look completely innocent. "I skipped the last part of Professor Grasavich's class to utilize the little gym… is that what your meaning? "

"Don't play dumb Hathaway—not when I went out on a limb to get you accepted to this Academy." His gray eyes—which weren't nearly as friendly as Bertie's—locked on hers in a pointed stare.

She didn't respond—she just stared back, thought she wanted desperately to drop her eyes and look away.

His jaw tensed. "Fine. I suppose I'll go first. I received a summons from the Headmaster's office—do you want to guess what he had to say?"

"Was he commending you on the fine job you're doing? If not… he sure should have been." The corners of her lips lifted in a tiny smile.

"Cut the crap, Hathaway—it's not cute. He wanted to deliver some very unsettling news—"

"Sir, I—"

He held up his hand to silence her. "Let me finish, Hathaway. As if that meeting wasn't troubling enough… when I returned to my office, _this_ was waiting for me." He held up an expensive looking envelope with his name scrawled across the front in an unfamiliar hand. "It seems there was an anonymous witness to the incident that Headmaster Boreyev told me about… and this mystery person's version of what happened is quite a bit different than the one Boreyev relayed. Now… what I want to know is which story is _true._"

"Can't be answering that iffin' I don't know what the stories are, now can I?"

He stared at her for a moment, frowning. "The headmaster seems to think that you attacked a Royal guest—"

"He ain't no Royal—said so himself," she interrupted, scowling.

Surprise flickered across the Head Guardian's face. "Are you admitting that you _did_ attack him?"

"No—I'm just correcting the mistake."

"Mr. Mazur is here serving as a proxy for one of the most influential members of a very important Royal family—in essence, for the duration of his stay, he is to be treated as if he is the Royal he represents, Novice Hathaway."

She winced. " I did _not _ attack him—but iffin' I had, he would've deserved it. Did the Headmaster bother to tell you that the man was ogling me?"

Petrov sighed, leaning back in his chair. "No… he didn't—but that's something you'll have to get used to. I'm not saying I condone it, but the fact of the matter is you're an attractive young woman—it comes with the territory."

"And when I graduate I'll be a Guardian—a title that doesn't designate sex. I will be serving in a position that requires me to be willing to die for the Moroi—that deserves a wee bit more respect than eyein' me like I'm a two bit whore!"

For a moment he didn't respond—his gray eyes almost seemed to be staring _through _ her, as if she wasn't there at all. "You're right… we _all_ deserve more respect than we're given, but that's not going to change, Hathaway. The bottom line is simple—if you want to graduate and to succeed as a Guardian… you have to learn to overlook that kind of disrespect. As bad as it is, you'll experience far worse during your years of service… and not just from the men, trust me. The women may not harass you sexually, but they'll show their disregard and contempt in a hundred small ways—and each time it happens, you'll have to ignore it."

"Would you be telling me the same thing if I were a male novice?" She demanded, her face heating with anger. "To just toughen up and take it? If Pavel Morozov came to you and said a Royal guest was making eyes at him—"

Petrov's snort cut her off. "Morozov wouldn't do that—he'd handle the situation himself."

"Which is exactly what I did," she said, vehemently. "I didn't come running to you complaining, and I didn't hit Mazur over the ogling—all I did was call him out on his behavior. And even though the Headmaster of this Academy was standing _right there_ when it happened, he chose to chastise _me_ for taking up for myself. That ain't right—a Headmaster is supposed to put the best interest of _all_ the students in the school first, Moroi and dhampir alike."

"That's true—but I have no control over what the Headmaster of this Academy does, Janine. I can put in a complaint with the council on your behalf, but you must realize that if I do… there is a very real chance it will come back to haunt you when you graduate and are seeking a charge—"

"I already know who I'm going to be working for—Prince Badica wants me to partner with Guardian Luzhkov. He says he'll top any offer I receive."

"Fine—then write up an account of what happened and submit it to me, and I'll forward it to the council. It would help if you had a witness—"

"Stef was on duty—he saw the whole thing. Mazur was giving him a ration of shite when I walked in," she offered.

"Stefan Kuznetsov? That boy is afraid of his own shadow—I don't think he'll admit to seeing anything…" his voice trailed off—he stroked his neatly trimmed beard for a moment, his brow wrinkling. "You're a very persuasive young lady… maybe you can convince him to do the right thing. _Without_ threats—mind you. If a witness statement is made under duress, you'll risk them throwing out the entire matter as invalid. Now… back to the matter at hand—"

"But I just told you—"

"That you didn't hit him for leering at you—which means that has absolutely no bearing on the matter we are here to discuss."

"It does though… in a roundabout sort of way," she protested.

"From what you've said so far, it doesn't." He leaned forward, jotting something down in the folder that was spread open on his blotter; she scowled, suspecting it was her permanent record. "However if you'd like to stop stalling and get down to telling me what happened, I might be in a position to better assess its validity. I'm sure you can see that if you sit there, stubbornly refusing to talk about it or to answer my questions, then there's nothing I can do about it—as it is… my hands are tied."

She shifted in her chair—biting back the sarcastic response that was lingering on her tongue. "Yes sir."

_"__Did_ you hit him?"

"Aye," she said softly, "but I didn't attack him—he hit _me_ and I told him not to be touchin' me again. He didn't listen."

"When you say he hit you… was it something inappropriate, like a swat on your posterior?"

"No sir—he punched me full in the mouth."

Petrov leaned closer, tilting the shade to his desk lamp to better illuminate her face as he studied it. "Unfortunately, you don't show any sign of it—from what Boreyev says, Mazur does."

She frowned, reaching up to touch her lower lip, but before she could mention how much it had bled, the Lead Guardian had leaned back, resuming his line of questioning.

"Why exactly did he hit you?"

Pursing her lips into a tight, thin line, she dropped her eyes—the question hung unanswered in the air between them.

"According to what Mr. Mazur told the Headmaster, you jumped him, seeking revenge for what transpired in the front office—however… as I said before, this letter—which coincidentally happens to be written on the stationary that housekeeping stocks the desks in the Royal Suites with—claims something entirely different. According to our anonymous witness… you and Guardian Luzhkov were seen behaving… inappropriately, and when Mazur happened to call him out on it, Luzhkov attacked him—"

"That's horse shite and you know it!"

Petrov glanced up from the letter, smirking. "Of course I do—obviously our helpful little witness is unaware of Savva's devotion to his charge." He dropped the letter, once again affixing his gaze on her. "I'm fairly certain I can guess what actually took place. Mazur made some off color comment and Luzhkov was defending your honor—that boy can't seem to grasp the fact that he doesn't have to save every damsel in distress he might meet. I imagine you tried to stop it… and got caught in the crossfire—am I right?"

She couldn't meet his eyes—it felt like his gaze had actual physical weight that was crushing her beneath it. "Aye. He was misconstruing what Savva said… making vulgar innuendos. I think Savva just meant to smack him once… but Mazur… he turned it into a full out brawl."

"And you were afraid to say as much for fear of getting him in trouble—you were actually willing to risk your place here to keep him out of it." He sighed wearily. "That kind of loyalty is commendable, Hathaway… but it puts us both in a very difficult position."

"I'll still take the blame," she said quickly, glancing up. "All I ask is that you give me time to say my goodbyes before —"

"You're not being expelled—that is… not if you take the punishment that the Headmaster has ordered."

"But… you said Mazur represented important people. That my hittin' him was the same as hittin' a Royal—"

"Apparently, Mr. Mazur is willing to forget about the entire incident… provided you'll agree to serve as his Guardian and assistant while he's here."

Her mouth dropped open—it took her a full minute to remember how to speak. "I'm thinkin' I misheard you—"

"Unfortunately, you didn't. I don't care much for the idea either, but—"

"There's only one thing he'll be wantin' _assistin' _ with—an iffin' he tries it I swear by all the Moroi saints that I'll be doin' a hell of a lot worse than punchin' him!" She snapped—the heat of her anger strengthened the brogue that she'd worked so hard to overcome. "I'm here to learn about guardin', not to be pimped out to—"

"I wouldn't do that to any of the students entrusted in my care, Hathaway—and I'm fairly certain that Mr. Mazur knows if he tries to take advantage of the situation in such a manner, it will result in a fairly large scandal, all things considered." Petrov's fingers drummed on the desk as he watched her—presumably trying to gauge her reaction to the statement. "You do have options—this letter makes it clear that you're innocent of any wrong doing… but if I present it to the Headmaster, it _will_ go on Luzhkov's record. Lady Badica hasn't had any qualms about letting it be known that she doesn't like him—she doesn't think he's a suitable Guardian for her daughter… much less a romantic prospect. The woman is just waiting for a reason to remove Savva from Sofiya's life, and I know for a fact that Boreyev will pass the information along to her. This could be exactly the ammunition she needs to sway the Prince into to see things her way."

"No—keep him out of it. I won't have him getting in trouble for trying to defend me." Gnawing at her thumbnail, she tried to figure out exactly what game Mazur was playing. "If you were in my shoes… what would you be doing?"

"The first thing would be to take a step back and try to separate yourself from your anger so you can weigh your options. If you decline and the Headmaster expels you, your only hope of graduating would be to apply for one of the schools in the States… but I'm afraid that's not really a feasible option."

"Why not? I've kept my grades up—"

"It's not your academics or your training that presents a problem, Janine—it's not even the black marks on your record. The bottom line is that you _can't_ get in—not without a patron. Saint Vladimir's and Alder operate under a different admissions system. The Crown doesn't grant them much funding—most of its support goes to the older, more established Academies." His voice softened—some of the steely reserve faded from his eyes. "The stateside Academies rely heavily on donations from benefactors… and on the exorbitant tuition fees they charge _all _ the students. Moroi _and _dhampir."

"Oh." She frowned, dropping her eyes to her lap—more than a little disheartened. It was the first she'd heard of dhampirs having to pay for their schooling; at all the Academies she'd attended. Her education had been free, along with her room and board as well as any food and clothing—they even provided a small allowance for things like toiletries. It was how the Crown insured that each generation of Moroi would have the protection they needed—a way of guaranteeing they would not become extinct.

"Given your… situation—"

"You can say it plain—they don't give a shite how good I might be. It doesn't matter one damn bit since I ain't got a dime of my own to my name."

"We could always speak with Prince Badica… if he's already offered you a position, he might be willing to pay for you to transfer—"

"It ain't his place to _pay_ for me to be educated—not when I can get it free by swallowing my pride." She scowled and started chewing on her nails again, trying to think of a way out of the mess she was in.

"Honestly… I'd take the assignment, Janine. With the training you've had, you're physically able to defend yourself if it comes to that, and it will look good on your record. In the twenty years I've been at this Academy, there hasn't been one instance of a Novice being allowed to participate in any form of guarding outside the scope of the curriculum—in fact… I might be able to figure out a way to count it towards a partial credit on your Field Service… provided you don't wind up killing him."

"I can't be missing classes, sir—I'm already having trouble keeping up, what with trying to make up the difference in the academics between Saint Adomnán's and here." She winced as hot pain shot through her thumb—she'd chewed down to the quick without realizing it.

"If we count this assignment towards your Field Service, it would free up time on your schedule—that would mean more time for studying," he pointed out, grabbing the folder off his desk as he leaned back in the chair, flipping through the pages. He read for a moment in silence, his brow wrinkling. "This can't be right—they've overscheduled you. According to this they've got you down for secondary _and_ Lyceum classes—"

"Aye… when you sent the paperwork, Bertie suggested I take an accelerated program—so I can graduate when I should have, instead of a year behind. They held me back when I was attending Malruibhe Academy." An embarrassed flush raced across her cheeks. "I should be a senior… not a junior. Bertie said if I was willing to work hard… I could rectify that.

"I don't remember seeing that in your records." Arching a brow, he rifled through the pages. "It's rare for an Academy to hold a student back… I'm afraid to ask what you did to prompt—"

"The year I turned thirteen, my family died," she said softly, clenching her jaw. "It hit me hard—I had trouble focusing for a while. The Academy was close to the loch where their ashes were spread—I could walk there in less than an hour. I started skipping class and sneaking off campus—being near the water… it was the only place I felt close to them."

He froze—his eyes flicking up from the folder. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be callous."

"Twas a long time ago," she looked away, trying not to let the ache in her heart gain strength. "Probably not in the records cause I never told 'em anything—they assumed I was homesick. I just took my punishment when they doled it out, and kept finding ways to sneak off until they shipped me off to Saint Benedict's—I guess they figured that the bloody Yorkshire Moors were far enough away from home that I'd have no choice but to fall in line."

"Four years is hardly a long—"

"Next month it'll be five." Her voice was strained. "And for three of 'em, I ain't been able to pay my respects properly the way I should. I try not to think about it—easier to put it out of my mind as much as I can."

He took the hint, dropping the subject; clearing his throat, his eyes returned to the file. "How much progress have you made on the secondary coursework?"

"Quite a bit—they're letting me tackle it at my own pace, so I'm working ahead."

"Do you feel confident enough to take the exams?"

"Can I do that?" She asked, surprised. "I thought I had to wait until the end of the year—"

"We don't want students wasting time on subjects they've already mastered. There's no point—not when you could be utilizing that time to pursue other subjects that will improve your overall performance in the field. If you take the secondary exams and pass them, then your councilor will adjust your schedule, dropping those classes. You can either replace them will subjects from the Lyceum curriculum, or use the free time to focus on your existing course work—the choice is up to you." He glanced up, his lips curving into a challenging smirk. "So? Think you're ready?"

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye, if were talking about the basic courses."

"Good—I'll contact Mrs. Nikolaev in the morning to schedule a time for you to report to the testing center." He scratched out a note—attaching it to the front of the file with a paperclip. "Back to the Mazur situation… I did express concern that it might interfere with your training, however, the Headmaster assured me that Mr. Mazur has been informed that you need to attend your classes—he's willing to work around your schedule."

"So… what—he expects me to be running back and forth between my classes and the Royal Residences? That isn't enough time to do—"

"No, you'll be carrying a pager. He'll beep you If he needs you, and if it means you're late for a class you will be given adequate time to make up whatever you miss."

"The hell I will!"

"Novice Hathaway, I've been very lenient so far, but I suggest you watch your language—if you continue to use profanity, we _are_ going to have a problem," he snapped, affixing her with another stern glare. "I understand this isn't an ideal situation, but I'm trying to help you make the best of it—understood?"

She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Yes sir… but this ain't fair."

"As I said before, I don't like this any more than you do, but if you want to keep Luzhkov out of the equation, there is only so much I can do."

Frowning, she picked at the frayed edges around the hole in the knee of her sweat pants. "Running to see what he wants if he summons me isn't exactly him working with my schedule, sir—it's him pulling me out of class whenever he wants."

"All I can suggest is that if it appears he is abusing the situation then we'll meet with the Headmaster and reassess how to proceed, Hathaway." Petrov drummed his fingers on his desk, watching her with an impatient look on his face. "It doesn't matter how many excuses you come up with—your options aren't going to change."

"What if he wants to go outside the wards? I'm fairly advances, but I'm not fool enough to think I'm ready for real world guarding—"

"That is precisely why Guardian Zykov is here." Petrov nodded to the man beside the door, gesturing him forward. "Starting immediately, he will be your guarding partner while you're on assignment."

The red haired man looked startled. "Me? Sir… I was approved for a weeks leave, starting Friday—"

"Boreyev specifically requested you be assigned as Mazur's primary Guardian for the duration of his stay. It is really quite an honor, Fyodor… in guarding Mazur you are guarding the proxy of the next—"

"I have already made arrangements Leopold! You _know_ why I must go!"

"I'm truly sorry son…" Petrov sighed. "Boreyev revoked your leave."

"I don't give a damn—I'm going!"

"If you do… your career will be over." Petrov's voice was gentle, but blunt. "Boreyev has friends on the council—not only will you lose all chances of succeeding me when I step down… you will probably never receive a charge again."

"What if I don't agree? Would he get his leave then?" She asked quickly—spurred by the shattered expression on the young Guardian's face.

"I don't know—" a high pitched beeping sound cut Petrov off; he scowled, jerking open the drawer to his desk—pulling out a small black object and sliding it towards her. "That's Mazur. I need an answer, Hathaway—"

"Iffin' I'm going to sell my soul to the devil, I've got a few conditions of my own to be met first. I'll have an answer for you _after_ I talk to _him." _ Leaning over, she scooped up the pager, scowling fiercely. "What wing is he in?"

"Ivashkov—the penthouse."

She froze, processing what that meant. "Aye… then he's got some powerful connections indeed. Penthouse is reserved for the head of the family, yeah?"

"That's right… and in all likelihood, the head of the Ivashkov family will be our next queen," Petrov said softly. "Which is why your little slip up this afternoon is being handled with kid gloves. I want you to come straight back here and report to me as soon as you speak with Mazur—Zykov will accompany you."

Nodding, she pushed herself up out of the chair. "Thank you for being willin' to hear my side of the story, sir. That's more than anyone has done before."

"Alberta thinks very highly of you, Hathaway—she believes you have it in you to be one of the best… and from what I've seen… I'm inclined to agree with her."

She tried to hide how much his comment meant to her, but her cheeks flushed with pleasure at the compliment—her throat suddenly felt so tight that it was impossible to speak. Nodding respectfully at him, she turned, leaving the office—Zykov followed at her heels.

The Guardian didn't speak as they headed down the hall—his anger was a palpable thing, filling the air with a prickly, heavy tension that she could practically _feel_ against her skin; she held her tongue as long as she could, not speaking until they exited the building—afraid he would explode at the slightest provocation.

"I'm sorry about your plans… were you going to visit family?"

"That is none of your business," he snapped, speeding his steps.

She bristled. "In case you didn't notice, I _tried _to help you in there."

"I said it's none of your business, Hathaway. If it weren't for you—"

"Don't be blaming this shite on me—I didn't ask for any of it!"

"You are dangerously close to being impertinent, young lady—"

"What are you gonna do, have me expelled?" She snorted. "That's already about to happen, and all I did was take up for myself—"

"Well your 'taking up for yourself' might have just cost someone their life," he snarled, spinning around to face her.

She stopped in her tracks. "What does that mean?"

"You're too young to understand—"

"Try me—I'm smarter than I look," she shot back. "I ain't been too young to understand death since the day I walked into my house and found my family drained! I already got their deaths on my conscious—I'll be damned if I stand by while another is added to the tally!"

"I'm not talking about Strigoi, Hathaway—"

"You ain't _talkin_' about anythin'—what you're doin' is actin' like a spoiled brat who ain't gettin' his way!" Once again, the strength of her brogue betrayed her anger far more than her words did; taking a deep breath, she focused on her diction—controlling _it_ was far easier than stilling her turbulent emotions. "Just tell me what's so important, alright?"

He stared at her a moment, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "I have a friend… a lady friend—"

"Christ on a crutch! You're makin' a damn fool outta yourself over missing a bloody _date?"_

"It's not like that at all! She is involved with someone… a Royal. He is… violent towards her." Zykov dropped his eyes, his cheeks flushing almost as red as his hair.

She understood _that—_far too well. There'd been no domestic trouble in her family, but she'd often seen women in her village sporting bruises on their faces; they were timid, broken creatures—their spirits damaged far more than their bodies by the blows they'd received. "You were planning on trying to make her come to her senses?"

"No—I've that too many times to count… it does not work." He sighed, stepping closer—lowering his voice. "She has small children—her mother told me that the last time he visited… he started beating up on the boy. He is due to visit again next week… I was planning on being there to protect them all in the event his temper snaps and he tries—"

"You will be." Her voice was low and determined; she closed her eyes, fighting back a surge of anger towards the nameless, faceless Royal he'd mentioned. Abusing a dhampir woman was bad enough, but abusing a dhampir child that would one day be forced into service—that was inexcusable. Without another word, she started walking again—stalking towards the Royal Residence with a murderous expression on her face.

Zykov fell into step beside her. "You heard what Petrov said—"

She cut him off, shooting him a resolute look "Aye, I did—and it don't matter one damn whit. You're going—just you wait and see."

* * *

_**A/N To the guest who commented:**_

_**'**_Janine's friend is a sprit user right? And please keep writing this I loving this Abe Janine story!'

_**Yes, Sofiya is a Spirit user—she also appears in 'One Poor Captive' (Savva's story) as well as a couple of stories in the VA Drabbles and One Shot Collection, and she will appear in later chapters of 'Letting Go' and 'The Mask I Wear'.**_

_**Speaking of 'The Mask I Wear'... those of you who are reading it will hopefully spot another familiar character—the young Guardian assigned to work with Janine. Poor Fyodor Zykov eventually becomes the Lead Guardian at St. Basil's... and he's still hopelessly in love with the young woman he's so determined to help in this chapter—Olena Belikova.**_

_**;o)**_


	9. Chapter 9

All in all, he was rather pleased with the way the cards had been dealt; with the headmaster in his pocket and the anonymous letter hedging his bet, a win in his favor was practically assured. Straightening his tie, he glanced down at his watch; Boreyev had five more minutes… if the girl was a no show, he'd have Tatiana on the phone in no time flat—proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ibrahim Mazur _never_ bluffed.

As if summoned by his thoughts, someone pounded at the door to the suite—his smile widened with pleasure as he crossed the room to answer. "Glad to see you're prompt—"

"You think you're a right tricksy fecker, don't you?" The girl scowled at him, hurling the beeper at his chest; it bounced off, clattering against the marble floor.

"I don't _think_—I _know_." He arched a brow, smirking. "You're here, aren't you?"

"Only to tell you _ my_ terms," she snapped, brushing past him—he started to turn, but movement from the wall beyond the doorway caught his attention.

Immediately, his eyes narrowed as he noticed the rather large red haired man that was following at her heels—the Guardian's coloring was so similar to the girl's that for a moment he wondered if he was about to be confronted by a protective older brother. "Who the hell are you?"

"He's my guarding partner—seems like I'm not the only one who thinks you're not to be trusted." She crossed her arms across her chest, scowling as she leaned against the wall. "Guardian Zykov… this here is the man we're supposed to be protecting—Ibrahim Mazur… apparently they call him _Zmey._"

Frowning, he bent down to retrieve the beeper; as irritated as he was by the unexpected tag along guest, the part of his brain reserved strictly for business ventures was pleased to note that the product was durable—there was nary a crack or scratch on the casing. "I told you to call me Abe."

"No—you said your _friends _called you that. I ain't your friend—and I never will be."

"Why not? I'm a good friend to have—ask anyone."

"I don't give a rat's arse what other people think of you—your actions speak louder than fawning accolades from your cronies."

"I see… I suppose I should have known you were the type to hold a grudge—"

"What I _am_ is pissed off—I don't like being summoned like some kind of damned slave girl, an' I don't like being blackmailed into doing something against my will." She pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them—her head tilting back as she glared up at him with disdain. "I don't give a damn who you know or how big a man you think you are—_if_ I guard you, it'll be because _I_ decide I want to, not because of your underhanded scheming."

"This isn't a negotiation, Miss Hathaway—"

"It is or by God I'll let them expel me," she growled, poking him in the chest with her finger. "I ain't property to be bartered away to placate the Royals or their friends—I'd rather spend the rest of my life as a scullery maid to humans than to sacrifice my morals to please the likes of _you!_"

Had it been anyone else in the world, his anger would have stirred—he would have snapped back, or in all likelihood done something far, far worse. But the fire in her words… her strength of will… they were heady, powerful things—as enticing as if she'd stripped off her clothing and stretched out bare assed across his bed. He tensed as his body reacted to the mental stimulation—immediately sinking down in the nearest chair in an attempt to hide the obvious sign of his arousal from her view. "Fine… tell me your terms—of course I'm sure you realize that I'm entitled to counter them."

Stalking over to the chair across from his, she sank down—still glaring. "First, you're gonna be leaving Savva alone. No more games… no more picking fights with him—"

"I believe _he_ was the one who threw the first punch," he pointed out, smirking. "I simply defended myself—"

"The only reason he hit you at all was cause you goaded him into it with your dirty little innuendos," she snapped. "If I take this… assignment—and that's a mighty big if—you ain't gonna be pulling that shite anymore. You're to leave him alone and not harbor any ideas of revenge for the tousling."

He inclined his head politely. "That's a simple enough request—I accept it. I assume you have more than one demand, since you said that was the first…"

"Damn right I do." The dhampir crossed her arms underneath her breasts again; it was a struggle to keep his eyes on her face instead of letting them drop to wander over the assets that her leanly muscled arms framed so nicely. "Second… there ain't gonna be no funny business between us. If you're doing this with the intent to be bedding me or groping me or anything improper, you're in for a rude awakening—I'll defend myself with force, plain and simple, and Guardian Petrov is aware of it and agrees."

Since he was currently trying to picture her topless, he wisely kept his mouth shut—simply inclining his head again.

"Thirdly… Guardian Zykov was supposed to having next week off, but they revoked his leave—"

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Boreyev insists on his being involved with your ridiculous plan. He has to stay on campus, thanks to your meddling—"

"I didn't ask for anyone other than you—"

"I'm a _novice_," she said, drawing out her words slowly as if she thought he might be an idiot. "If you decide you want to leave the wards, I have to have a Senior Guardian as my partner to back me up and monitor my guarding techniques."

"So he can plan his vacation for a later time," he shot back dismissively. "I fail to see why we're even discussing this—"

"He can't—" she scowled, shaking her head. "—he's got a lady he needs to go see."

"Miss Hathaway, I don't particularly give a fuck about his love life."

"She's getting beat up by the Moroi she's involved with, you jackass—and he's knocking around her wee lad too! You may not give a shite about one of your Royal buddies abusing dhampir women and children, but I do!"

Her statement was unexpected; in the blink of an eye his arousal vanished as efficiently as if she'd poured ice water on his cock—only he wasn't left chilled in the slightest by her words. The burst of anger that flared to life inside him was so strong that his mask of polite indifference almost slipped, exposing his true emotions. Clenching his jaw, he glanced over at the Guardian. "Is that true?"

"It is." The man looked tense—as if he, too, struggled with controlling what he felt inside.

"Then why the fuck are you standing here like a goddamned statue?"

Zykov shook his head, looking grim. "It has been made clear to me that if I go, my career will be over. I need to work so that I can provide for them once I convince her to leave him."

The wooden arms of the ornate chair he was sitting in let out a groan of protest as he tightened his grip on the armrests; he closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the problem—there had to be a way to achieve the desired results that wouldn't reflect badly on the Guardian.

Slowly, his lips curved up in a sly smile as the answer made itself clear. "If you're Miss Hathaway's guarding partner while she's working for me… then that means _you_ are indirectly working for me as well, correct?"

"Yes sir—I am the official Guardian assigned to you for the duration of your stay here at—"

"Where exactly is it that you were planning on going, Zykov?"

The man shot him a confused look. "Baia, sir. It is a small commune located—"

"I know where it is. The village is predominately populated by Rhusai, isn't it? Roma craftsmen… furniture makers… jewelers… weavers, correct?" He stood up, moving to his attaché case—ignoring the questioning look the girl shot him.

"Yes—I'm surprised you've heard of it, sir."

"I run an import operation… it's my business to know where exotic goods can be purchased." He started pulling the contents out of the case, stacking them neatly on the table as he worked. "I've never made it there for a buying trip, mind you—I'm too busy. That's why I'm sending you there in my place."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a simple enough concept to grasp, Zykov—I want you to bring me back samples of the best work they have to offer." He lifted up the bottom of the case, revealing a hidden compartment; grabbing one of the dozen white envelopes that was stacked inside, he held it out to the guardian. "That should be more than sufficient to cover their costs—I'll need receipts."

Hesitantly, Zykov reached out and took the envelope, his eyes widening as he glanced inside. "But… why would you want—"

"You're not very sharp, are you? I just told you I run a company that specializes in selling hard to find, traditionally crafted items—I'm too busy to waste my time wandering all over the middle of nowhere hunting down merchandise… so I'm _ordering_ you to do it for me." As he spoke, he replaced the items into his briefcase—closing the lid and spinning the lock before returning to his chair. "Boreyev can't fault you for carrying out a direct order from your charge—correct?"

"No sir… but—"

"I want you to leave immediately—I'll call the headmaster when Miss Hathaway and I have finished our meeting and tell him as much. Trust me… he won't argue."

"Why—"

"Did I stutter Zykov? Immediately means _now._" He didn't bother looking at the guardian—his eyes were locked on the dhampir girl across from him. "I've satisfied your second requirement—is that it… or is there something else on your mind?"

She stared at him, not answering—her confusion clearly written on her face.

"Hathaway… you'll be alright here?"

Zykov's question seemed to snap her out of her stupor. "Ain't me you should be worrying about. Go on… off with you—I hope everything works out for your friend."

"If you're sure…"

"I am—have a safe trip." Her gaze locked with his as the Guardian headed for the door; her expression was still puzzled—she frowned, narrowing her eyes.

He waited until the man was on the threshold before calling out—stopping him in his tracks. "Zykov—make sure you bring back one of those fancy scarves—the ones the women wear. Green, I think… no…" he tilted his head, studying the girl in front of him for a moment, "a deep dark blue—with traces of gold woven in."

"Yes sir—"

"And buy something pretty for your friend… my treat."

"Thank y—"

"Don't—just get the fuck out before I change my mind," he snapped, scowling as he glanced over at the man. That was the problem with doing the right thing—people never let you live it down.

Neither of them spoke until the door clicked shut behind the Guardian—the sound was loud in the terse stillness of the room. Slouching down in his chair, he propped his feet up on the coffee table—still waiting for an answer to his question.

"Why'd you do that?"

The question startled him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Miss Hathaway… but didn't you just ask me to do it? It _was_ one of your terms, right?"

"You could've just demanded for Boreyev to let him go—ain't that what your kind does? Pull strings and make demands, expecting everyone to let you jerk them around like you're some kinda god or something—"

"I told you before, you don't know anything about my kind." He watched her, amused by the way she bristled like an angry kitten at the retort.

"Alright then… why don't you enlighten me? What could possible motivate a great man like yourself to do something for a lowly dhampir?" Her tone practically dripped with condescension. "You didn't have to think up a legitimate reason for him to go… didn't have to give him money, or tell him to buy—"

"If I hadn't sent him… I wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation to go myself. Would you like to know what would have happened if I gave in to that urge, Miss Hathaway?"

She arched a brow. "You woulda bought your own damn baubles and trinkets?"

"No." He sat up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees—his gaze never dropping from hers. "I would have hunted down the Royal he was talking about and killed the fucker."

She snorted, making a face. "Sure you woulda—"

"Any man that intentionally strikes a woman or child deserves death." His voice was low—practically a growl. "Women are the most precious thing the Most High created and children are innocents—those are two things that must be treasured and protected above all else."

"And yet _you_ hit _me_ just this afternoon," she shot back.

A muscle in his jaw tensed. "That was unintentional—I have _never_ hit a woman in my life, even when they've given me ample reason."

"And what reason might there possibly be for hitting… how was it you put it… _'the most precious thing created'_? Her tone was derisive, and mocking.

"I'll give you two—a maid stole a ring off my father's finger when his body was laid out for mourning… and a whore tried to stab me in an alley, hoping to rob me." Rolling his neck to relieve some of the tension, he sighed. "Those are the only two times I ever felt the urge to strike a woman… and I resisted—that's how strongly I feel about it.. You may not believe this, but I was and am horrified by what happened this afternoon. I have no excuses… and I know better than to think an apology would ever be enough to erase what I did."

She shifted, leaning back in her chair—studying him silently for a moment. "It was an accident… I shoulda known better than to get in between two men when they're tousling."

"That doesn't matter—I shouldn't have let my ego get the better of me." He cleared his throat—perturbed by the turn the conversation had taken. "You still haven't answered my question… is there anything else you're demanding—"

"Do you know how to throw a fancy shindig?"

He blinked, caught completely off guard for the second time in one night—that was a fucking record. "What?"

"You know… a dinner party. The kind the Royals always have?" Her face was expressionless—he tried to see past the bland mask to what lay beneath, but it was an impossible task.

"I do… why?"

"That's my final demand. My friend's birthday is coming up in two weeks and I need to throw a fancy surprise party but I haven't got a clue how to go about it. You do that… plan the whole thing out from start to finish… and I'll serve as your Guardian and assistant while you're here."

His lips curved up in a satisfied smirk. "That's easy enough to do. I'll need a list of her favorite things… flowers… music… food—"

"Ain't for a girl—it's for Savva," she said—smiling for the first time since she'd entered the suite.

"Are you fucking _ kidding_ me?" It slipped out before he could catch it.

"Nope—that's my final condition… and it's non-negotiable."

He clenched his jaw, trying not to give in to the dark feelings welling up inside him; his initial response was to refuse outright—it was an _insult_ for her to even ask him for such a thing. The urge to rant and rave, unleashing his anger was almost overpowering—but he couldn't let his fury drown out his ability to _think. _She truly believed she'd already won—it was obvious from the smug expression on her face.

_She was very, very wrong. Abe Mazur didn't ever concede a victory—he would fight to his dying breath._

Leaning back in his chair, he stared at her—an attempt to make her squirm, buying him time to rack his brain, searching for a way to shift the odds back in his favor.

"Well?" She shifted restlessly—fidgeting under the intensity of his gaze. "What's it going to be?"

"I'll accept all your demands on one condition—I did warn you that I'd counter offer whatever you said."

"I told you it's non-negotiable. I have to throw a party for—"

"I'll throw your damned party—hell, I'll even pay for everything myself. What I want is… an added bonus to sweeten the deal." The smile he flashed her was the one that Tati always swore made her weak in the knees. "We turn back the clock."

She eyed him suspiciously, seeming completely unaffected by the charm he was practically oozing. "What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"It means that you'll get every single thing you asked for—and I'll even throw in a nice outfit for you to wear to the party—_provided_ you agree to forget everything that happened between us today. And by everything, I mean from the scene in the front office right up until you knocked on my door."

"Why would you be wanting me to do that, exactly?"

"We got off on the wrong foot, and it went downhill from there. It's completely my fault, of course—I was tired and irritable from spending the past two days stuck in a train, and the incompetence of the staff here only made my mood worse." Kicking his charm into overdrive, he dropped his eyes—a feigned gesture of embarrassment that was completely calculated to soften her up.

_And it worked._

"Are you saying you didn't mean to come across like a complete jackass?" The ice in her voice was less evident—she was slowly beginning to thaw.

"I didn't mean to stare… when I turned around and saw I'd snapped at a beautiful girl..." he shrugged, flicking his eyes back up to her face, "you caught me off guard. I fully intended to apologize for my rudeness—that's why I tracked you down. Unfortunately, things… escalated before I had the chance."

"Cause you were picking fights—"

"The only excuse I can offer is that something about you fucks up my head." As soon as he uttered it, he frowned—he hadn't meant to let that slip. What in the hell was wrong with him?

"So you're trying to blame _me_ for _your_ bad behavior?" She huffed.

"That's not what I said at all. You make me forget myself. Do you want the truth? Seeing you with your… _friend_… it made me react like a fucking teenager with more hormones than brains. I was jealous—"

"That's ridiculous! You can't be jealous over a person you just met—you don't know anything about me at all," she said, frowning.

He shrugged. "Ridiculous or not, it's the truth. I felt like I had to prove I was the better man, so I acted without thinking."

"It takes more than a handsome face and brawling to prove the merit of a man—those things require nothing more than good genetics and strength and skill. A far better test is what he does to help others…" She dropped her eyes as a faint blush raced across her cheeks—the color enhanced her natural beauty. "What you did for Zykov… that's the sort of thing that catches a girl's eye, Ibrahim."

The way his name rolled off her lips was enchanting—almost musical; he wanted to hear her say it again, but he'd be damned if he'd let her know—she was already far too close to having the upper hand. "Did you just inadvertently admit you find me handsome, Miss Hathaway?"

Her blush deepened. "I've got eyes, don't I? Mind you, there's lots of handsome men on campus—so don't you be thinking it means anything more than the fact I can admit to what's right in front of me."

"I'm sure there are, but what I want to know is…. do you think they're as handsome as _me?_"

"I think there are none as egotistical—I compliment you for doing a kind thing and you latch on to the fact I said you were good looking," she muttered—her eyes flicking up to his face. "Being pleasing on the eye can only get a person so far—the devil is handsome too, but that doesn't make him one whit less evil."

"Some might say that your little analogy is more accurate than you know." The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin.

"Aye, they might at that, considering your nickname, Zmey."

"I'd prefer you call me Ibrahim—"

"I thought you wanted me to call you _Abe_," she taunted, tilting her head in a way that was almost flirtatious.

"I changed my mind… I like the way you say my name."

"Does that mean you don't want to be my friend anymore?"

His smile widened. "What do you think?"

She laughed—a happy, carefree sound that made his body stir to life again. " I think that it's time for dinner and my stomach is rumbling… and before I can eat I have to report back to Guardian Petrov to tell him whether I'm staying or going."

"Changing the subject? Watch out, Miss Hathaway… that's a surefire sign that you don't want to answer my question. Are you scared to?"

She made a face. "I ain't scared of the likes of you—the fact of the matter is… I don't think you have _friendship_ on your mind at all."

He arched a brow, his tongue snaking out—swiping across his lips; the more contrary she acted, the more convinced he was to win her over. "And if I don't?"

"Like I said before, it takes a lot more than a handsome face and a strong body to turn a girl's head—especially when I'm the girl in question, _Ibrahim._" She stood up, heading for the door.

There was a definite, underlying challenge in her voice—it surprised him so much that she was at the door before he realized she hadn't agreed to his terms. "Wait…" he scrambled to his feet, following after her. "Do we have a deal, or not?"

She paused, glancing back over her shoulder at him; the bright light from the hallway beyond the door framed her body in a halo like corona, making her seem almost luminous—like an angel that had fallen to earth. "Yes… but I've got one more condition you'll have to be meetin'."

He groaned. "Miss Hathaway… you don't want to try my patience—"

"Miss Hathaway was me mum…" her full lips curved up in a smile that stole his breath away. "My name is Janine—if we're going to be working together, you'd better learn to use it. _That's _my final demand."

Tossing her hair back, she strode off down the hallway; leaning against the door frame, he watched until she disappeared from view, a pleased smile twitching up the corners of his lips.

Challenge accepted—the game… was _on._


End file.
